


Wicked Rest

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Lust, Older man, Oral Sex, Toxic Relationship, Victorian, letters to mina, malnessa, younger woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: For years, the noise of Sir Malcolm shutting the gate haunted Vanessa. . . she heard it relentlessly in her dreams...She knew if she kept her eyes open, she would spare herself hearing the iron clanking against iron in her sleep. That sound created the empty space in which she sat, so utterly alone and defenseless, where the demon found her and attempted to fill her. She wanted it and did not, for it was so wrong.





	Wicked Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceansinmychest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/gifts).



> A tiny treat, inspired by a song, for a friend who inspires me and is dear in my heart. xxx.

For many years, the sound of your father closing the gate between our homes filled my dreams. It haunted me. I developed an aversion to sleep because of it.

Some of the doctors thought my refusal to sleep had potentially exacerbated or even caused my madness, but I knew better. I knew if I kept my eyes open, I would spare myself hearing the noise of iron clanking against iron in my sleep. That sound created a vast, empty space in which I sat, so utterly alone and defenseless, where the demon found me and attempted to fill me. I wanted it and I did not, for I knew it was so wrong. And then I was too weak and sick to be able to decide either way. Maintaining a wakeful state was my only defense.

I imagine the gate must still be shut tight, chained even, all these years later, but he has opened another door to me and I’ve passed through it. Being on the same side of this door as him has done little to persuade me to rest.

His hair has greyed since I’ve returned to him, since I've claimed my place at his side. Could it be I reclaimed this position, shoulder to shoulder with him as we walk in the night? Certainly he does not see it that way. No.

Grief has aged him. Silver streaks either side of his beard. He reminds me of a fox I’d stuffed in your solarium so long ago. Do you remember? Do you remember how I could not tuck the sharp teeth back into its mouth, and so he looked particularly fierce with his fangs exposed in a snarl? This is your father. He is feral in his sorrow, as am I.

In our wildness, even as we walk, side by side through darkness, there is no comfort of warmth between us. It is winter. We are bundled in woolen coats and velvet collars as we traipse through snow, searching for you. I watch as he tackles beasts, as he slits throats, as he stabs chests of the half dead. He wants so badly to find you. It is his single, desperate desire. Even his need to despise me is paltry compared to his need to see your face. We return home with empty arms and blood spatters his chin and forehead. He collapses by the fire and I dampen a cloth to wipe it away. My touch makes him shiver. I wipe crimson from his beard until it is sparkling as snow again. I pour him drink upon drink, but it does little to warm him. There is no warmth between us. It is winter in our hearts.

I’ve slept little these past weeks.

In the beginning, I’d prepare for bed only to be woken by him or his servant to go out into the night on our variety of fools’ errands. In the beginning it was to go out and about to look here or there. But then, more often, I’d be called to his rooms to collaborate on other matters. I think most of these ploys were nothing more than tests of my mettle, to see if I’d be ready and willing to get up and go at his beck and call. I always was, but I dare not say this pleased him. I’ve made my peace with his displeasure. Even when he is in my mouth, filling my throat with great, hot clots of himself he has no satisfaction with my personage. I make myself as pliable as possible. I leave my hair down so he can twist his fingers in it and pull my head back to take him deeper. I consent and submit, and then he pushes me from him and falls back on his bed.

How tenderly I would hold him. How sweetly I would kiss and caress every bit of him, soothe his demons away and give him every ounce of pleasure I possibly could, as willingly as I possibly could.

You see, he thinks he is doing something depraved and awful to me. He thinks he is punishing me for hurting his heart. But he is not.

I am secretly loving him, trying to mend in furtive moments so we can begin again. Or even so he can know a moment’s peace. To see his stony face at ease would allow me rest. It is terrible, his pain, how even in his sleep after he falls from me, he is gripped by it.

It strikes me, if he would allow me to love him, perhaps I would not be so lonely, even if he never loves me in return. It is a strange contradiction, of this I am aware. How I wish you were here to talk about it with me, for I believe only you would understand this singular desire. Or perhaps you would find me foul and displeasing and would abandon my heart as well. How could you ever embrace me, such as I am, with his taste in my mouth? God forgive me, it is the only warmth I know anymore. 

As it is, I know little rest. I rarely even lie in my own bed, lest I begin to fall asleep into wicked dreams, only to be woken by knocks on my door.

I sit up and smoke and write at my desk. I await his call for me, for the peculiar ministrations only I can provide. 

More than anything, I fear finding you.

I fear what we will find, yes. I fear what we will have to do, yes. I fear that I alone will possess the strength that your father will not, and this will create a permanent freezing of the landscape between all of us, evermore. Oh, dearest, there is so much terror in my heart. Were not hearts created to love? How could one heart be filled with so much more fright than love?

Most of all, I fear something so completely terrible and wrong, I almost hesitate to confess it, even to you. But we have always been closer than sisters, have we not? So, I feel I must tell you all.

In finding you, I will need to fulfill the part of my promise in which I walk away forever from him.

I suppose I will go home and sit on my side of the gate. I will sit until snow falls and sparkles silver. It will make me think of him. I imagine sitting very still, and for so long, vines grow up around me and weave me into the pattern of wrought metal. I will then become part of the very thing that has served to sever me from my heart.


End file.
